wild swimming

King of the River

The Silent Pool – Denham

June 11th & 13th 2014

I love the sun.

I love the feel of it on my skin. I love long lazy days, walking barefoot in shorts and an old T-shirt. I love the way life slows down and priorities change.

But most of all I love the feel of cold water at the end of a hot day. That first leap into a cooling balm. I love to sit on the river bed and physically feel the heat of the day leach away, through flesh that is strangely and suddenly porous  – and with it all tension and trouble.

So after a long and arduous day building a new chicken run, I decided to take a solo dip at Denham on my way to morris dancing. And for those who have not yet discovered the joys of morris and who are minded to smirk or sneer, may I just say that the clash of an ash stick is also a pretty efficient stress reliever!

In step with tradition - the clash of ash

In step with tradition – the clash of ash

That evening I chose to launch off from the rocky outcrop that overlooks the Silent Pool. Here the slate is wide and warm, a perfectly shaded place to shed clothes and seek solace from the heat.

The changing room

The changing room

I dived deep, kicking down until I could see the rounded rocks of the river bed, ochre painted in the diffused light.

Silence.

That amazing silence that deafens. A few seconds of peace before rising again, up through a hustle of bubbles to break the surface with a gasp.

Only on this occasion I torpedoed straight into the flailing paws of Marley who had mirrored my dive. His look of consternation and confusion was priceless!

I cruised across to the opposite bank, grounding gently in fine silt and almost becoming skewered on a submerged branch, its leaves long washed away. A short upstream breaststroke was followed by a long leisurely backfloat, under a canopy of oak, rowan and nut-decked beech.

Just chillin'

Just chillin’

And suddenly there it was. Like an incoming missile – low, fast and true to the axis of the river. This could only be one thing and sure enough, moments later a lightning flash of orange and turquoise, no more than 18 inches from my face. Although over in an instant, this was my closest ever encounter with a kingfisher and it was one of those magical moments that a river will sometimes lend you.

It was time to celebrate my good fortune, so after a quick towel down I was off to the the sleepy riverside village of Bere Ferrers, arriving just in time for a dance, cool ale and squeezebox session beside the Tavy’s slow flow.

Bere Ferrers

Bere Ferrers

_____________________________________

Two days later and I was back at the Silent Pool, this time accompanied by Sal and a delicious picnic supper.

Supper is served

Supper is served

The weather had remained fair and this was a Friday evening, so tonight the pool was not so silent. Distant cries of delight hailed from a family paddling and floating on large rubber rings,  just around a bend in the river. Blue campfire smoke snaked up into the sky, merging into dusk.

But they were too far away to bother me and soon I had strippped off and dived in, the shock of the cold snatching my breath away. As always, I was a willing victim of the river’s mugging.

Later in the evening the family passed by on the woodland track above me, all loaded with a rainbow array of bags, towels and inflatables.

But I laid low in the bank-side shadows, like the trout and salmon that find a haven here…

Laid low in the shadows

Lying low in the shadows

Spitchwick and the Heart of Stone

Spitchwick

May 14th 2014

 

There are two things that wild water enthusiasts know about Spitchwick:

1. It’s a good place to swim.

2. It’s a bad place to swim.

You see, it’s all a matter of timing. On an August bank holiday it’s a sprawl of bodies, boom boxes and barbecues – (more on this another day) – and if not hell, then it’s certainly getting pretty toasty!

Which is why we chose a Wednesday morning in the middle of May for a dip in the Dart.

Wherever I lay my hat...

Wherever I lay my hat…

Spitchwick, or Deeper Marsh as it appears on the OS map, has been a popular bathing place for countless generations. Situated on a bend in the River Dart, the large flat grassy expanse of common faces up the wooded hills of Holne Chase with its iron age hill fort. The pretty nearby village of Holne was, appropriately enough, birthplace to Charles Kingsley, author of ‘The Water Babies.’

The moorland 'lawn' at Spitchwick

The moorland ‘lawn’ at Spitchwick

And the water here flows fresh from the moor – pure, peaty, cold and clear at this time of year. The river bed is liberally strewn with boulders, hewn from the granite tors over millenia and then coated with a slippery green sheen. My first taste of the Dart came ealier than planned thanks to this – despite wearing swimming shoes, my grip was lost and so was my dignity!

The peaty Dart

The ochre waters of the Dart

Luckily we were the only folk around, so there was no need to pretend that my sudden descent into the depths was no accident and had been perfectly planned!

I swam across to the far side of the river, partially shadowed by cliffs where tomb-stoners line up to leap into the menacingly dark waters.

A water baby - not!

A water baby

Here I swam against the current for some time before my toes numbed – (the left fourth toe is always the first to go and has become my early warning system.) Drifting downstream and into the shallows, I half stood, half stumbled, emerging awkwardly from the water like some freak of evolution before sploshing my way onto the picnic rug so carefully laid out by my partner. A hefty kick of sand added to her disapproval so I sat in the corner, in the shade and in disgrace.

But less so than Marley Bone.

Like Sal, he had spotted the misleadingly named grey wagtail that had perched tantalisingly close to us on a large broken and bleached bough that had floated downstream in a wintry spate. It’s yellow underbelly almost glowed and the long tail dipped repeatedly, lightning fast.

As was our spaniel… For somehow, in the split second between Sal’s finger pressing the button and the camera shutter releasing, MB managed to spring towards the startled bird. Not just once – many times. We now have a fine collection of photographs displaying the blurred tail of a bird and the nose of a dog!

MB - villain of the peace!

MB – villain of the peace!

Close by, a solitary white tulip meandered downstream and into the shallows where, in a moment so poignant that it could not have been engineered, the lone flower draped itself over a heart shaped rock.

Simple and beautiful.

No words were spoken.

Beautiful and beyond words ...

Beyond words …

No doubt, further up the river at someone’s once favourite spot, their ashes had been scattered and flowers recently laid.

It reminded me of a time when we lived in a cosy rented cottage that nestled in a woodland clearing alongside the River Meavy. This too was a moorland river, smaller than the Dart, but no less beautiful. We knew every inch of its banks, every bend, every boulder. We knew every rocky fall where there was a noisy and  joyous union of white watery effervescence and mossy greenness.

Here too it was not uncommon to find ashes and wreaths – and I was reminded of some words that I once penned after making such a discovery on a cold February afternoon.

Wet Lemon Clouds
(For Alice)

Wet lemon clouds of watercolour wash
Angry river – wild and raw, claws
The shore where summer sticks were tossed
And pebbles thrown, drone
Of ferment, flood and flow o’er
Rocks and rolling stones, sugar brown
The bank’s deposit, settle and shift
Swift the current’s pulse, live
And charging …
Cerulean flash!
The fisher’s king sparks bright
In flight both low and true
And through the spume’s pale veil
Where death has left his wreath
And ash, beneath the oak’s
Soaked roots and shoots of daffodils.

But these were warmer times and, walking barefoot across closely cropped grass, dotted with daisies, we paused frequently to gaze at the patriotic red, white and blue of campion, may blossom and bluebell.

Salute to the red, white and blue

Salute to the red, white and blue

But the warmer times had not yet reached my extremities. I may as well have been walking across hot coals in some Fijian ritual, for my feet had become bundles of cotton wool, numbed and senseless.

Feeling the cold...

Feeling the cold…

It was almost a full hour before they rejoined me!

 

 

 

 

 

Swimming Back to 1915

River Fowey, near Respryn

May 26th 2014

Lanhdrock has to be one of the jewels in the National Trust crown.

Home of the Agar-Robartes family, this stunning stately home was largely rebuilt after a devastating fire in 1881 and is now a ‘must see’ for any visitor to Cornwall. Described as a ‘wealthy but unpretentious family home’ , Lanhydrock is displayed much as it would have been at the turn of the twentieth century, a carefree time for the family before the clouds of the Great War cast a dark shadow over the 22,000 acre estate – (that’s almost 3% of Cornwall.)

Lanhydrock

Lanhydrock

The great house stands in extensive grounds – formal gardens, wilder plantings and parkland, these leading down to the River Fowey. Here there is good swimming to be had, particularly at Respryn Bridge, but this can be busy on fine weekends, so after a little research, we settled upon a quieter spot for some Saturday afternoon solace.

Parking at the old Bodmin Road Station (now renamed Bodmin Parkway – an act of banal utilitarian blandness) we surveyed the sleepy scene. There was little sound apart from the buzz of a bumbling bee.

Breaking the silence

Breaking the silence

Heat was rising from the platforms and I thought of the poem Adlestrop – written by Edward Thomas exactly a century ago to describe just such a station and just such an afternoon in rural Gloucestershire…

Yes. I remember Adlestrop,

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat, the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

I love this poem and the atmosphere it evokes, which is why I went on a pilgrimage to Adlestrop last summer. The station is long gone, but walking in the hills and fields around this tiny village (population 80) one can almost hear the hiss of steam. In just the same way I was experiencing the tranquility of a bygone age, right now, back in my home county.

"The steam hissed..."

“The steam hissed…”

Pushing open the heavy wooden gate that led from the platform, we walked down the drive that would have been an essential link between the great house and the outside world. The start and end of journeys. This was the main rail link to London and here both people and goods would have arrived and departed, perhaps family coming home and surplus kitchen-garden produce departing, bound for Covent Garden or Spitalfields.

Arriving at a bridge over the River Fowey, we diverted down a flight of steep steps and walked along the left hand bank, through lush emerald water meadows, speckled with flag iris and molehills. The skeletal remnant of a once mighty tree served to reflect the fortunes of the Agar-Robartes family – of this extensive, influential pedigree there is only one surving member, now housed in a cottage on the estate.

A reminder of mightier times

A reminder of mightier times

Nearby we happened upon a perfect spot for a picnic lunch, beside a right-angled bend in the river with easy access, deep water and a small beach on the wooded shore opposite. Pink campion graced the bank where a gentle slide guided me into the water. I could feel soft mud exuding through my toes as I walked in to first waist, then chest deep and I was off, drifting downstream in the gentlest of currents.

Perfect for a picnic

Perfect for a picnic

A frayed ropeswing spoke of bygone times, of excited shrieks and memories made. Of evening sunshine, exhilaration and the tiredness of children. Did the Robartes family ever come to this place I wondered?  Were they permitted to feast on the freedom of the river?

Freedom of the river

Freedom of the river

Thomas Charles Reginald Agar-Robartes, born 1880, was the eldest of ten children. Schooled at Eton then educated at Oxford, Tommy was a keen horseman who beame a Liberal MP in 1906. Famed for his dapper appearance and trademark buttonhole of violets, he once appeared on the cover of Tatler and was every bit the charming English gentleman.

Thomas Agar-Robartes

Thomas Agar-Robartes

Floating lazily in a wide gyration, I wondered if Tommy had really known the river. Had he discarded his clothes and convention before leaping into these waters? Had he swum from the shingle beach before gazing  up at the sun or stars?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a woman almost towing her sullen teenage son in her wake. Having also discarded my clothes and convention, I took a few strokes towards the high river bank where the water was deep and dark. Here the brown mud was peppered with burrows, like the aftermath of a machine gun attack. Treading water to save mutual embarrassment, I heard their footsteps drawing closer, then pause. “Hallo” she called with a smile and a hearty wave. Treading hard, I echoed her greeting before floating off, back into the green stillness and my musings.

Green stillness

Green stillness

A gentle breeze carried the rhythmic pulse of a steam train over the fields, for the Bodmin & Wenford line still operates nearby. The vintage picture was suddenly complete. It was 1915 and I was enjoying a rich, slow, timeless and simple life here on the surface of the river.

Presently, darkening skies drew over and the air chilled. We retraced the path, past an explosion of rhodedendrons to the railway road where I imagined Tommy in an open-topped car en route to the station, casting a last backwards glance towards his childhood home before rejoining his regiment on the western front.

Rhodedendrons along the river

Rhodedendrons along the river

And I imagined the tears of his mother as the train pulled away …

On September 30th 1915, Captain Thomas Agar-Robartes was in command of No. 2 Coy, 1st Bn, the Coldstream Guards at the battle of Loos. Although wounded, he rescued a comrade from no-mans land under heavy fire.

Tommy was killed by a single shot fired by a German sniper.

Grave at Lapugnoy, near Bethune

Tommy’s grave at Lapugnoy, near Bethune

The river flows on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introducing Denham

If a wild swimmer can have a ‘local’ then Denham is mine.

A place of refuge, rest and relaxation. A place to swim, lie on warm sands, to dine and to dream. It’s a place for thought, for prayer and for Tai Chi. And, above all, it’s a place for fun. Somewhere that feels like home, where the family goes and knows like the back of their hand. A place of safety, a haven and a limitless playground for Marley Bone, our springer spaniel!

Marley Bone

Marley Bone

 

Marley Bone

Never far from the fun

Denham, in particular the pools that lie waiting downstream of the bridge, will doubtless feature in many a blog, so it seems like a good idea to make some introductions…

Denham Bridge

Denham Bridge

Denham Bridge is an ancient packhorse crossing, as narrow as it is old. Crossing the River Tavy, its granite double span links the 21st Century with the timeless otherworldly villages of the Bere peninisula. At peak times the narrow lanes that transcribe a sinuous serpentine journey through meadow and woodland are anything but idyllic, as careful drivers are in as short supply as the scarce passing places that are scattered along the route.

And nowhere is more dangerous than the bridge itself, lying at the bottom of a very steep` winding gorge. There have been many accidents here – and not just on the road.

Denham Bridge is a famed site for tombstoning and on a sultry summer’s evening, the 40′ deep waters are suffused with teenage testosterone and adrenaline. But the deep section is also a narrow section – and tragedies have occurred.

Bathers beware!

Bathers beware!

Two hundred metres or so downstream is a large, wide sectiion of river that I call ‘The Silent Pool’ because that’s just what it is. The waters here are deep, black-green, lazy and languid. Wild rhodedendrons cast a purple reflection across the planed surface and when the flowers drop they resemble floating fairy hats, or tiny sailboats embarking on a gentle, unhurried passage. On the left hand bank (facing downstream) there is a wonderful rocky outcrop, perfect for changing and still draped with frayed hessian from the spates of last winter. It’s as though the river had neatly hung up her coat and then left without it!

Upstream from the Silent Pool

Upstream from the Silent Pool

Until recently it was easy to access this spot and the few who knew could take a narrow path through the trees to reach this micro-idyll and the small pebble beach beyond. But now the way is barred with barbs and the fun, for many, has been stolen. Oh to be in Scotland where the law grants almost universal access to rivers. In England and Wales, there are 40,000miles of river – but access is permitted along only 2% of these miles. Time to join the ‘River Access Campaign’?

So in order to reach the Silent Pool, I now have to climb down off my soapbox and use the right hand bank via an uppity downity sort of public footpath, frequently traversed by fallen trees that the landwowner has so far omitted to clear. Nothing that cannot be clambered around or ducked under though….

Access to the river here can be a little tricky when wet, for there is a muddy bank which leads to a partly submerged plateau. This drops suddenly into deep water where the current can be a little frisky, so caution is required. As always, it is important to read the flow, the eddies and the currents before diving in – and also to know exactly where you can get out.

Downstream from the Silent Pool

Downstream from the Silent Pool

Partially submerged trees, looming up like icebergs provide an additional hazard in this stretch of water.

Icebergs of wood

Icebergs of wood

Following the path downstream, one enters a large clearing – unswerving trunks rising from a rustling russet beech leaf carpet where generations have carved pledges of love into the scarred bark. A broken rope swing hangs limp and useless from a sturdy bough. Alone in the stillness of twilight, this is a serenely beautiful, almost magical space.

The beechwood clearing

The beechwood clearing

Beyond the woods is a small grassy plain, where high stems have been beaten down in the centre to accommodate tents, for this is frequently a place of campfires, guitar and song, a perfect pitch that leads to a long boulder beach. Here the rounded grey stones have been stacked high by January floods and the river is wide, shallow and loud. In the dry months, islands of cow pasley sprout in the middle of the river and both wagtails and dippers are frequent visitors.

Looking upstream from the boulder beach

Looking upstream from the boulder beach

Around the next bend is my heaven. I call it Denham Beach. Here the stillness of the water signals its depth, A small, secluded and unusually sandy beach slopes down into the peaty water. Boulders are few so the tread is easy. From this place there is an effortless channel in which to swim against the flow, then a place to cross the current and be wafted into a large, gently circulating lake. This spills the swimmer back out into the main stream where one can backfloat, gently spinning under a canopy of trees and open skies.

Denham Beach

Denham Beach

The river then naturally nudges one into a moss-softened rocky outcrop that slopes so gently into the water that it can be climbed like a gangplank. From here it is a mere leap back into the deep water and the muffled world of the river bed where, rising through bubbles and starbursts of scattered sunlight the whole figure of eight cycle begins again.

Rising up through bubbles

Rising up through bubbles

In this quiet spot, shielded by an overgrown river bank, I usually bathe in the buff. To peel off one’s clothes, leave them lying in the warm sand and just walk into the embrace of the river is a wonderful thing. To swim free and dive deep, to kick out and lie back is a luxury. To float under the dazzling flash of a kingfisher and to hear the laborious wings of a heron rising behind you is a blessing.

To commune with the river is a privilege.

Taking a leap

Taking a leap

This is my place.

This is my local.

 

Well Crazy!

Crazywell Pool

May 28th 2014

 

The hazy sun present on departure was soon transformed into slow lazy leaden drops of rain, warm and tantalisingly refreshing, as I headed up the stony track from Norsworthy, past Down Tor and towards Cramber Tor arriving at Crazywell Cross and pool, some 30 minutes later.

Climbing uo to Crazywell

Climbing up to Crazywell

The journey took me past a meadow of yellow flag iris with sheep grazing around the margins of their marshy home. Beyond this, a panorama that included Burrator and a far distant Plymouth Sound. There can be little doubt that the south west of Dartmoor offers some of the most spectacular vistas in the entire South West.

Yellow iris

Yellow iris

Simple beauty

Simple beauty

Like a broken and windswept web,  lichened undulating grey drystone walls straddled the moorland and all about; the heady coconut scent of gorse flowers, an explosion of may blossom and early foxgloves. A straggle of Royal Marines, some striding, some stumbling passed by, eager for their next water stop. For this is an area used by the military for training and it is only a handful of years since one young recruit perished in the icy winter waters of Crazywell.

Gorgeous granite walls grace to tors hereabouts

Gorgeous granite walls grace the tors hereabouts

In the shadow of Crazywell Cross, one of many granite crosses marking the ancient route between Buckfast and Tavistock Abbeys, the pool was grey, wind ruffled and uninviting on arrival. This served as a reminder of the legend that the waters whisper the name of the next parishioner to die into the whistling wind, for there is no shortage of folklore and superstition regarding this remote and bleak place.

Crazywell Cross

Crazywell Cross

There were spits of rain in my eyes as I peeled off my kit and slid into the water, now far cooler than when I had last visited towards the end of the long hot summer of 2013.

A sudden shard of light leaping from behind a cloud heralded my entry and soon my feet were melting into the soft silty bed and I was enjoying a relaxed breast stroke towards the far bank.

One man and his dog

One man and his dog

The absolute peace of the place was dappled only by the sound of rippling wavelets amongst the reeds, the excited call of a skylark and the steady rhythmic whoosh of an overflying duck. Leaving my swimmers tucked into the bank I swam free and for a moment the cares of the world drained away, diffusing into the water. I was floating in a second Eden, a place of beauty and innocence.

Swimming free

Swimming free

From time to time, an occasional sun scattered diamond shards across the 0.86 acre (3,500 sq m) surface of the lake. The origin of Crazywell is uncertain, but most likely it is a  flooded mine excavation, as the pool lies adjacent to a valley known as Newleycombe Lake where tin workings abound. The banks are up to 100 feet high and the lake was once reputed to be bottomless, its levels changing with the tides. Actually, the water level rarely changes – being maintained by a hidden feeder stream and subterranean drainage.

The beauty of the place was perfectly described by Eden Phillpotts in 1908:

Crazywell Pool in late summer

Crazywell Pool in late summer

“Nature, passing nigh Cramber Tor, where old-time miners delved for tin, has found a great pit, filled the same with sweet water, and transformed all into a thing of beauty. Like a cup in the waste lies Crazywell ; and, at this summer season, a rare pattern of mingled gold and amethyst glorified the goblet. Autumn furze and the splendour of the heath surrounded it; the margins of the tarn were like chased silver, where little sheep tracks, white under dust of granite, threaded the acclivities round about and disappeared in the gravel beaches beneath.”
(Phillpotts, E. The Virgin in Judgement. 1908)

Lansallos

July 5th 2014

Lansallos is a very special place. And never more so than when my children are home and we embark on an expedition! So come late afternoon, with the tide falling and the barometer rising, we packed a barbecue and headed west into the emerging sunshine.
Lansallos translates as Lannsalwys in Cornish and is more correctly known as West Coombe Beach after the valley at whose base it nestles. Principal amongst its many charms is the fact that it is rarely busy. And there are several good reasons for this. Firstly, until recently, this small secluded cove has only been known to locals and a handful of others. Secondly, it is reached by long narrow lanes – the sort with grass growing down the centre. A single green line in the middle of the road definitely means ‘no overtaking’!

And lastly, there is the approach. A 1.3km track descends through woods that, although alive with bluebells and the scent of wild garlic in late spring, can become a challenge on the return journey when children are tired and fractious. We have learned to travel light!

The beautiful, but steep, descent towards the sea

The beautiful, but steep, descent towards the sea

The final drop down to the quartz sand and shingle beach is the most steep. Passing beside a narrow promontory liberally sprinkled with thrift, one descends through a deep gorge cut into the grey rock. Although weather worn, the tracks of a thousand cartwheels remain as visible proof that this was once a smuggling cove in the days when Cornwall was wild, unruly and despised by the more ‘genteel’ folk to the east of the Tamar. (No change there then!)

In the tracks of smugglers

In the tracks of smugglers

So accompanied by the sound of Reed Water, a crashing waterfall and by my 86 year old mother whose glinting eye had revealed a steely determination to visit the ocean so beloved by my parents in younger days, we set foot onto the sheltered horseshoe sands and gazed out across Lantivet Bay, now part-drenched in early evening sunshine.

Late sunshine on West Coombe Beach

Late sunshine on West Coombe Beach

There was a surprising swell, lively waves breaking with an aquamarine, almost Mediterranean hue. This holiday theme continued on entering the water which was far warmer than expected and soon we were swimming towards the mouth of the cove and leaving the heavily folded cliffs behind.

A lively swell

A lively swell

This was my first sea swim in many a month, rivers and lakes having been my more recent companions, but the buoyancy and tang of the salt water felt good as I kicked, dived and floated under a clearing sky.

Enjoying Old Briney

Enjoying Old Briney

 

Proud father syndrome!

Proud father syndrome!

 

Looking to the horizon

Looking to the horizon

 

In my element

In my element

 

Then, like truculent teenagers in a fifties diner, three frisky waves burst in, flashy and brash, hot on each other’s heels, competing to impress by crashing the loudest against a fiercely toothed outcrop to the west of the bay. We were nudged and jostled, pushed and hassled. Picked up and dropped down. Generally roughed about. But it was a great ride, so we rose and fell at the whims of the swell until the sight of blue smoke wisping up from the beach signalled our call to supper just as the air began to chill and cliff line shadows lengthened.

Pebbles at the high tide line

Pebbles at the high tide line

 

The sinking sun

The sinking sun

 

Supper calls

Supper calls

 

 

 

 

Diving in….

What better way to launch into a blog on the delights of  wild swimming than to spout the words of Psalm 23?

‘He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside quiet waters,

He refreshes my soul.’

This blog hopes to describe a journey of delight as I get up close and personal with some of the rivers, lakes and coastal waters that grace the wonderful Westcountry. Natural swimming is sometimes sensual, frequently spiritual and, almost always, special. It can feel like a communion, a nexus with creation – and it can feel f f phenomenally cold! So pack a towel and a smile (you won’t need much else) and take the plunge…

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